


All Nightmare, No Dream

by Dexterous_Sinistrous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 20th Century, 20th Century England, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Doctor Derek Hale, M/M, Orphan Stiles Stilinski, Temporary Character Death, Vampire Derek Hale, Vampire Lydia Martin, Vampire Stiles Stilinski, Vampyr Game (2018) AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 09:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16489703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dexterous_Sinistrous/pseuds/Dexterous_Sinistrous
Summary: “Derek,” a soft, terrified voice called out. “My sweet … Derek—” a sharp sob stifled his words. “What have you done?”The voice pulled Derek’s mind back to reality. Derek looked down at the owner, his stomach churning as all his horrors were realized.Stiles lay on the cold, filthy mud of the dock, his clothes stained with the blood gushing from his neck.





	All Nightmare, No Dream

**Author's Note:**

> An alternate universe of the Vampyr (2018) video game that inspired me to put some Sterek magic out there.

His insides were burning.

His limbs trembled as he climbed out of the mass grave.

The stench of rotting flesh overwhelmed his senses. The smell of infection—the kind he had fought so hard against in the war—was rampant.

He couldn’t focus on anything but the pain twisting his insides. He just wanted it to stop—needed it to stop. But nothing seemed to work.

A muffled voice joyfully called out Derek’s name, echoing steps approaching.

Suddenly arms were around him, embracing Derek tightly as the person wept tears of joy.

Derek’s fangs itched, his stomach hungering. He could hear the person’s heart beating in his ears, taunting him—calling out to him to taste.

His teeth tore through the soft flesh of the person’s neck.

He felt the person’s nails digging into his back, through his linen shirt. He gripped the tense and struggling body to his chest as he clamped down harder. He drank the blood that poured into his mouth—the tangy taste of copper changing into something sweet and delicious.

Derek lowered them to the ground, his arms releasing the person quickly as he moved to claw at his chest. The blood burned down his torso, the blood he ingested consumed his senses. His wounds healed, his mind cleared of the fog. He could hear the heartbeat slowly dying out.

“Derek,” a soft, terrified voice called out. “My sweet … Derek—” a sharp sob stifled his words. “What have you done?”

The voice pulled Derek’s mind back to reality. Derek looked down at the owner, his stomach churning as all his horrors were realized.

Stiles lay on the cold, filthy mud of the dock, his clothes stained with the blood gushing from his neck. His eyes were wide with panic and terror, uncertain what had just happened. His hands weakly reached up at Derek, fingers straining to grasp at Derek’s chest, pulling on Derek’s vest as best he could for purchase.

“Stiles!” Derek fearfully exclaimed, reaching down at he pressed into Stiles’ embrace. “No, no—no!” His hands shakily moved to cover the wound in Stiles’ neck. “Hold on, just—stay with me, Stiles. Please!”

Stiles’ bloody fingertips gently grazed Derek’s cheek, the wet stickiness of blood lingering as his arm weakly dropped back to the ground. He blinked tears away until his eyes couldn’t close again. His neck burned from the wounds Derek’s fangs left as his heartbeat slowed to nothing.

Stiles died with Derek’s hands encasing his throat to stop the bleeding, a desperate plea to live being the last thing he heard Derek utter.

“Stiles, no, Stiles—please,” Derek begged, his whole body shaking as he felt the blood seeping through his fingers. He sobbed against Stiles’ motionless chest, clenching his jaw shut as his muffled scream caused his teeth to gnaw and his gums to bleed against his newly sharped fangs. He drew Stiles into his arms, cradling Stiles’ lifeless body against his chest. He cried against Stiles’ shoulder, gently rocking them both back and forth.

“This is a nightmare— a nightmare,” he spoke against Stiles’ collarbone, a blood-soaked mouth speaking out the reprieve he wanted. “Wake up,” he pleaded as his voice cracked. “This wasn’t supposed to happen— I came home— I came home to you,” he cried harder against Stiles’ shoulder.

Derek pulled back, looking at Stiles’ emotionless face. He supported Stiles’ head in his hand, angling Stiles’ face towards his. He pressed an ill-fated kiss to Stiles’ cooling lips, a heart wrenching parting. His bloodied lips parted from Stiles’ own, just as distant shouts came from across the wharf and warehouses.

“Stiles,” Derek softly spoke his name.

“Stop there!”

“Kill it!”

Derek turned to look at where the voices were yelling. He saw the distant figures on the other side of the dock—of the mass grave Derek had crawled out of. “Wait—help me,” he started to argue as Stiles began to slip from his embrace. He moved quickly to lay Stiles out on the dock, careful not to hastily hit Stiles’ head against the ground. He tried to call for the patrol’s help when a bullet suddenly tore through the scaffolding next to him.

“Monster! What did you do?”

Derek put his hands up in an attempt to placate them, rising from his spot next to Stiles. “Please, I don’t know what’s happening!”

Another bullet grazed Derek’s arm.

Derek did the only thing he could think of—he ran.

~*~

It was a blur.

Derek found himself barricaded in an abandoned hovel—someone’s abandoned home once the flu worsened. He had seen it too many times on the warfront—possessions were forgotten, doors left open to raiders; loved ones’ corpses left unattended.

Derek gripped the gun’s handle tightly as he lay on the ratty mattress. He tried to think of a reason for the sunlight’s effect on him. He had never seen logical reason for skin to burn and blister under the sun in mere seconds. He held his hand up towards the ceiling as he inspected the back of his hand. His skin had healed, completely flawless in the wake of damage that should have caused severe scarring.

Derek dropped his hand down, staring at the ceiling.

“Stiles,” his voice croaked out, still unable to believe what happened. He had feared a day without Stiles, but he never believed it would have been his own actions that separated them.

He remembered Stiles’ arms wrapped around him tightly—the joy he could hear in Stiles’ muffled voice as Derek clung to him. Tears stung his eyes as he remembered Stiles’ choked out plea—the look of betrayal and fear in Stiles’ eyes when Derek looked down at him.

“It’s a nightmare,” Derek spoke aloud. “That’s it—it’s a nightmare.” He pulled the hammer back on the revolver as he lifted the gun up. He aimed the barrel at his chest, placing it right over his heart. “A nightmare,” he repeated, steeling his nerves as he pulled the trigger.

~*~

Dreams—no, memories—haunted Derek whenever he slept.

~*~

Stiles was laying on his stomach, pillow stuffed under his chest as he read the book in his hands. He smiled when Derek placed a kiss along his naked shoulder.

“How can you read those?” Derek lightly laughed as he leaned closer to Stiles. He rested on his side as he observed Stiles’ features.

“I’m not a doctor,” Stiles snidely commented with a light laugh. “I let my brain rot with such ridiculous words.”

Derek lightly chuckled as he lazily traced his fingers along the curve of Stiles’ spine. “I’m not a doctor either,” he corrected Stiles.

“Yet,” Stiles replied. He turned to look at Derek, allowing his head to lower against the pillow as he closed his book. “You’re going to be a great doctor some day, Derek Emmett Hale,” he happily uttered, a sleepy smile on his face as he looked at Derek.

Derek pulled Stiles in close, dragging him across the bed and into his embrace, smiling at Stiles’ playful laughter that filled the room. “You have such blind faith in the son of a banker,” he uttered.

“I have faith in my sweet knight,” Stiles replied, welcoming Derek’s embrace.

Derek gently pressed a kiss to Stiles’ lips out of fondness for Stiles’ nickname.

When they were younger, Stiles had spent months calling Derek his sweet knight since he witnessed Derek rescuing his stray cat from the neighboring tree. He only stopped when Emmett Hale smacked the words out of his mouth—demanding a stop to the childish names.

Derek knew the reason his father reacted in such a way. He knew why his mother watched him whenever in a room with Stiles. He knew that their butler kept a spying eye on Stiles whenever Derek was due to come home.

The only son of a prominent Lord and Lady couldn’t cause scandal for falling into the dangerous and mischievous arms of a stray orphan the Hales had collected.

Derek had kissed the welt along the corner of Stiles’ lips, admitting his own fondness for Stiles’ attention.

Stiles now only spoke such words in private, a silent promise to always hold Derek in his heart despite their unlawful union.

“And what will we do when I’m a doctor?” Derek asked, wanting to keep breathing life into their dream.

“You’ll be the doctor of a great hospital,” Stiles began, a wicked smile on his lips as he conjured forth an image for them both to share. “And I’ll be an excellent scientist—I’ll help create all the cures and mixtures you need to save people.” He turned in Derek’s embrace, dropping his hold on the book in order to be forgotten for another time. He rolled them to press Derek down into the bed, the sheets wrapped around their naked limbs conjoined them. “And we’ll be together—where it won’t matter what people say, and we won’t care about people gawking at us every second of the day.”

Derek smiled up at Stiles. “That’s a grand dream,” he admitted.

“It’s a promise,” Stiles corrected Derek, leaning down to kiss him.

“Then,” Derek began to ponder; too eager to kiss Stiles again in the little time they had before his parents came back from the opera. He waited until their kisses trailed off before speaking again. “Then you’re my dream, Stiles Hale.”

~*~

"Are you alright, Dr. Hale?"

Derek looked up from his desk, catching sight of Lydia standing in the doorway of his personal quarters. “Fine,” he answered as he straightened up.

Lydia took calculated steps into the room, her hands folded neatly together as she observed their surroundings. “I’ve heard things,” she offered.

“This hospital is a center for gossip no doubt,” Derek replied, scrubbing a minutely trembling hand over his tired eyes. He hadn’t slept in days, haunting memories of Stiles’ voice tearing him out of sleep.

“When is the last time you fed?” Lydia inquired as she picked up one of the vials filled with an unknown liquid.

“That’s an invasive question, Lady Martin,” Derek tiredly answered.

“You’re a young Ekon,” Lydia began.

“Just say vampire, Lydia,” Derek almost snapped as he looked at her in annoyance.

“Vam-pyr,” Lydia mockingly annunciated the word. “Is that what you wish to be called? A myth. I thought you were a man of science.”

“Yes, Ekon sounds _so_ much better,” Derek answered.

Lydia snorted as she came to stand beside Derek. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’re not well,” she seriously stated. “Whatever this is that haunts you is slowly killing you.”

“I need to focus on this,” Derek began, turning to gesture at his strewn about notes.

“You need to feed, or you will lose control again,” Lydia warned.

“I will never _feed_ again,” Derek harshly stated as he stood up. He walked to the window that looked over the hospital’s courtyard entrance.

“Your mother has announced his funeral,” Lydia firmly stated. She took a few steps towards Derek. “It would be good for you to go,” she continued. “To have closure on this.”

“How can I find closure when I killed the only person who ever loved me?” Derek roughly countered.

“It’s never easy, Derek,” Lydia gently explained. “We lose people to age and decay, but we convince ourselves that we can handle it. We never know how to react when someone is taken from us.”

“I ended his life,” Derek admitted. His gaze watched the nurses and patients wandering about the tents in the courtyard. He had worked tirelessly to help cure the patients and caretakers since he arrived at the hospital. He found himself in kind company when Dr. Scott McCall admitted to knowing more about this new realm of the supernatural—when he was introduced to Lady Lydia Martin, a fellow vampire as both newfound allies had kindly explained to Derek’s furious questions.

Thus, Derek found himself working at Pembroke Hospital, under the watchful eye of Dr. McCall and Lady Martin. He worked in saving as many people as he could—an act of repentance for what happened to Stiles.

“That was the hunger—forced upon you by your sire,” Lydia corrected Derek. She moved close, linking her arm around Derek’s. She placed a calm hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Please, my friend. I’ve lost too many to senseless endeavors like this.”

Derek turned from the window to look at Lydia.

“Go to the funeral,” Lydia urged. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Derek started to shake his head.

“You loved him,” Lydia rationalized, reaching her hand from Derek’s shoulder to cup his cheek. “It’s time for you to give him a proper goodbye—the one he deserves from you.”

Derek moved into Lydia’s embrace, hugging her tightly as he closed his eyes against the pain.

“I am sorry, Derek,” Lydia comforted him.

~*~

The war changed everything.

Derek had barely finished his education when he was called away to the front. He had to do something about the war ravaging the world. He regretted leaving Stiles behind, knowing that he was forcing a wedge between them with making such a decision.

But Derek’s time in the war only made matters worse for them both.

Stiles’ words were cold and calculating in every letter, and Derek knew someone else was reading them. There was a formality in Stiles’ letters that never reached the true poetry of Stiles’ personality.

Every once in a while, Stiles managed to get a letter to Derek from another source—Derek highly suspected that Isaac snuck the letter out of the house before anyone else could snatch it up. Derek kept those letters securely stored in his locked-chest with his most cherished personal affects. He would answer those letters with his own impassioned ones, making sure to send them hidden in his letters to Boyd, begging for his friend’s help.

Derek was boarding the boat in France when a currier handed him the letter.

The flu was ravaging Europe just as mercilessly as the war. But the letter held more shocking news than that.

His father was dead. And Stiles was expected to expire next from the sickness.

Derek returned home to his neighborhood in shrouded chaos. Darkness and sickness forcing people from the streets, his walking brisk as he kept quiet and to himself. He ignored his mother’s worried words as he made his way upstairs to Stiles’ room. He didn’t care about the risk, knowing that he had to save Stiles.

“Blood letting—really, mother?” Derek chastised as he bandaged Stiles’ arm.

“It’s what Doctor Blake suggested,” Talia simply answered.

“I’ve worked my whole career against practices like these,” Derek countered. He turned Stiles’ face towards him, gently wiping away the sweat from Stiles’ clammy skin with a damp cloth.

“Nothing seems to cure this flu,” Talia argued. Her eyes focused on Derek, watching his motions carefully. “He needs rest, just leave him for now.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Derek sternly answered.

“Derek,” Talia started in a worried tone.

“I said I’ll stay, mother,” Derek firmly stated in an angered tone. He turned to look at her.

Talia drew in an unsteady breath. She shook her head, sighing deeply before turning to leave the room.

~*~

Derek kept hidden during the small funeral procession. He waited for the vicar and his mother to leave the cemetery. He had kept to the shadows to avoid being seen by his mother in particular. He had hoped he could keep avoiding her for the remainder of his endeavors to discover the source of his illness.

Derek fell to the ground by Stiles’ grave. “Stiles,” he weakly breathed out. “You shouldn’t be buried here,” he started, looking around the small area. It was as nice a spot as a cemetery could offer, but it meant nothing compared to what Stiles deserved. “You belong on a hill—in the sun, surrounded by trees and flowers.” He closed his eyes against the burn of tears. He had seen the blood the last time he cried for Stiles.

_Grief weakens us_ , Lydia’s voice rang in Derek’s ears. _Pray for Stiles’ forgiveness if you must, but do not linger in that guilt_.

“You were all that was good in this life—traversing the most dangerous of places to find me,” Derek started, his nails digging down into the dirt freshly thrown over Stiles’ grave. “And you found me, my love. You found me when no one else could.” He shook his head as a slowly brewing rage in his stomach twisted. “I had worried for so long that someone else would part us, that I never thought I would be the one to doom us.”

Derek forced himself to stand. He opened his jacket to withdraw the rose he had taken earlier from Camellia—the mute flower girl. He turned to flower in his hands, seeing how perfect the petals and stem truly were. He admired Camellia for her kindness in offering him the rose when he passed her in the street.

Derek gingerly kissed the rose’s petals. He reached a hand out, dropping the rose down onto the mound of the grave.

“I miss you, my darling Stiles,” he breathed out.

~*~

Stiles recovered from the flu within weeks of Derek’s arrival.

But as Stiles began to wake from his sickness, Derek had been called back to the war.

“You’ve just come home,” Stiles tried to stand, only to be pressed back down into the bed by Derek. “Why must you leave me now? I’ve been awake for less than a few hours.”

Derek sat next to Stiles on the side of the bed. “I’ve performed a miracle in bringing you back from the brink of death at the flu’s hands,” he explained. He reached a hand up to touch Stiles’ cheek. “They’ve asked me to help them at the front.”

“It’s not fair,” Stiles argued as he closed his eyes, pressing his face into Derek’s hand. He cupped his hands around Derek’s, trying to memorize the feeling.

“I know,” Derek replied, leaning over to press a kiss to Stiles’ forehead. “I came back this time, I’ll come back to you again.”

“And what if they just send you back?” Stiles argued, looking at Derek. “Your father is dead—shouldn’t you be here for your mother and sisters?”

“Cora and Laura have families of their own,” Derek explained. “Mother is taken care of by father’s will.”

Stiles frowned. “That leaves me,” he reluctantly uttered. “I’m the one without care.”

Derek shifted closer to Stiles, taking his face in his hands. “Once I come back, I will start my residency at a hospital. And we can have our own place outside of all this.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “I thought …” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I thought you said we’d be together—at the hospital.”

Derek hesitated. He regretted his words when Stiles slowly pushed his hands away. “They see you as my brother,” he started. “It wouldn’t be allowed—”

Stiles forced himself to stand with minor difficulty. He pulled his robes tightly across his body as he leaned against the fireplace’s mantle. “And will this promise change when you come back, just as the others have?”

Derek slowly rose from the bed. “I’m doing everything I can to make this possible, Stiles.”

“You left for the war because your work needed you there,” Stiles bit out. “You could have worked at the hospitals here—but the flu pandemic was at the front.” He looked at Derek.

There were red circles around Stiles’ eyes, his features sunken and pale from his struggle with death. He looked exhaustedly at Derek, as if he had no fight left in him to offer up.

“I’ve loved you for years,” Stiles reaffirmed, his voice soft in his confession. “Even when your father would beat me for it.” He pressed a hand to his forehead, applying pressure as a resistance to the headache growing there. “And you said you loved me, even rejecting every amiable match your mother made for you.”

“I’m not leaving you here,” Derek firmly stated as he moved close to Stiles. He wrapped his arms around Stiles, embracing and turning Stiles to face him. “When I return and accept a residency at a hospital, I will live _with you_ —in _our_ _home_.”

Stiles drew in a sharp breath, nodding quickly. He accepted Derek’s chaste kiss, looping his arms around Derek’s neck for better support.

“This illness couldn’t separate us,” Derek stated through several kisses. He pulled back to look at Stiles, his hand cradling the back of Stiles’ neck. “I won’t let this war, either.”

Stiles kissed Derek once more—a parting promise.

~*~

Derek felt better for a time, before he started to hear Stiles’ voice again. It was stronger this time, more prominent than just in his dreams. He tried to confess again, this time to the vicar who overlooked Stiles’ funeral. He found himself getting nowhere from there. He felt a rambling fool when he confessed his sins in being instrumental in Stiles’ death. He laughed then the vicar commented on his guilt.

But nothing stopped the voice.

It followed him until the point that he couldn’t ignore it’s taunting.

_I see you, Derek._

Stiles’ voice kept calling Derek closer and closer, back to the cemetery.

_Come to me._

~*~

Derek tried to keep cautious as he entered the cemetery. He followed the voice back to Stiles’ grave. He was shocked to find the vicar there, blood staining his clothes as he cowered by the large cross in the midst of the plateau of graves.

The vicar startled at seeing Derek. He yelled out in fear, pointing at Derek as he tried to scramble from him.

“You— what have you done?” The vicar demanded.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Derek answered, unsure why the vicar was suddenly terrified of him.

“Demon,” the vicar cursed. “A demon, conjuring apparitions— monsters of the dead.”

“Vicar, vicar,” Stiles’ taunting voice cut off the vicar’s cries of accusatory terror. “Derek is no demon—the prodigal son has returned; a soul resurrected from the dead. Just like your Christ.”

Derek turned to look at the owner of the voice. He watched as Stiles approached the grave. “Stiles,” he uttered in disbelief.

“Hello, my sweet Derek,” Stiles stated, his voice heavy with untold rage and betrayal.

“You,” Derek started, his voice disappearing in the next moment. He couldn’t put the pieces together.

“Me,” Stiles lowly uttered. “You last saw me on that filthy dock—left me dead, actually.”

Derek shook his head as he moved closer to Stiles. His pace was sure and confident as he almost strode up to Stiles, wishing to take him into his arms. “I thought I had killed you—”

“Don’t!” Stiles sharply snapped at Derek, pointing at him to halt his movements. “Don’t,” he lowly stated. “I do the talking now—I have this gaping hole in my chest, Derek, I need to let it breathe.”

Derek immediately stilled his movements. “Of course— of course, you can speak.”

Stiles began wringing his hands as he turned from Derek. “I’ve been following you,” he confessed. “I’ve seen you helping people. But you couldn’t help me.”

“If I knew you were alive—”

“I’m not _alive_!” Stiles yelled back at Derek, turning towards him.

Stiles’ eyes were a milky white, his irises foggy compared to their normal golden brilliance. His skin was abnormally pale, even for Stiles’ healthy complexion. There were red rings surrounding his eyes, mimicking the exhaustion Derek had seen on him the last time they were happily together. His clothes were still the ones from the dock, Derek knowing that his mother had unlikely gone through the hassle of getting Stiles a pristine change of clothes—even for his funeral.

Stiles looked like a ghost, coming to haunt Derek for his crime on the dock.

“When word came that you were missing, I searched for you,” Stiles explained as he paced back and forth. His hands wringing as he recalled the worry and terror he felt when searching for Derek. “I went from hospital to hospital—from cemetery to cemetery,” he kept shaking his head back and forth at the memories. “Grave after grave, I lifted every stone I could—desperate to find an end to my nightmare. And then … you were just there, standing in front of me.

“The _joy_ I felt, at finally finding you,” Stiles blissfully exhaled, his arms collapsing against his chest as he turned to look at Derek. “I longed for your arms—a happy ending to this tragedy. How I wanted nothing more than your arms holding me close, to tell me that everything was going to be okay now that you were home.”

“Stiles, I couldn’t see that it was you,” Derek weakly admitted. “The hunger was the only thing I could feel—”

“That _filthy_ dock,” Stiles hissed in anger, cutting off Derek’s excuse. “You looked half dead, and I could only imagine what had happened to land you there.” He looked at Derek. “I dug a tunnel from this grave, Derek—” he kicked part of the splintered coffin lid. “With my fingers and teeth!” He angrily recalled the taste of the dirt in his mouth as he clawed and scratched his way to the surface. He spit what he could onto the coffin at the memory.

“Stiles,” Derek softly uttered his name, taking a step closer to him. He just wanted to hold him, just how Stiles had described his own longing. He wanted to embrace Stiles, to tell him he would find a cure for them—that he would make the nightmare end. “I thought I murdered you,” he weakly confessed when Stiles kept from his reach. “I tried to— to end it all.”

“We’re a disease, Derek,” Stiles argued. “We sicken all we touch—all we kiss.” He drew in a shaky breath as he lifted his arms up, placing himself on display for the graveyard to see. “Look at me—admire your _ilk_.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Derek pressed as he took a step towards him. “I don’t know what you must think of me if you believe that I’d willingly subject you to this terror.”

Stiles longingly looked at Derek. “I want a miracle, Derek.”

“I’ve made allies, Stiles,” Derek quickly explained. “I know that I can find a solution—I know I will.”

“You’ve always played the hero,” Stiles bitterly stated. “I’ve seen you have your fun with them,” he gestured about in reference to those who were still human. “They’ve become puppets, nothing more than amusements for us, yet you still try and help them.”

“I have to help however I can—”

“You would save those that were so desperate to separate us,” Stiles countered.

“We’ll have an eternity now, Stiles,” Derek tried to rationalize. “A strength to be together—”

“No,” Stiles sharply uttered. “I’m mad—don’t you get that! I have these— these wicked voices filling my head with promises of a pain with no end. I can hear your voice, too, you know? Your sultry, haunting voice refuses to leave me, Derek.” He grabbed the bound cross meant to mark his grave, viciously tearing it out of the ground. “You don’t understand,” he huffed out. He angrily slammed the cross against the ground, breaking the conjoined halves as they split against the unearthed coffin. “Your voice has to stop, Derek—it has to!”

“I won’t,” Derek quickly uttered, taking a step back from Stiles.

“It’s time to put an end to this,” Stiles uttered as he offered the stake in his hand to Derek.

“No,” Derek shook his head, taking a wide side step to avoid the wooden spear. “You know I won’t play this game,” he added.

“Come now, _doctor_. Like a rabid dog,” Stiles urged. He took a step towards Derek when he realized his pleas were being rebuked. “Think of it like performing an autopsy—like in your schooling—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Stiles!” Derek angrily stated as he grabbed the stake out of Stiles’ hands, tossing it to the ground to be forgotten. He reached his own hand up to touch Stiles’ face, to gently cup Stiles’ cheek in his palm once more.

Stiles smacked Derek’s hand away, shaking his head in anger. “I’ll kill them—all of them!” He looked up at Derek. “That kind Dr. McCall—your sweet little lass with red hair—”

“Lady Martin is not any concern of mine,” Derek countered, taking the necessary steps to waltz into Stiles’ space. “Especially not with you here.”

Stiles gripped at his hair, wanting to stop the voices for at least one moment. “Don’t you get it?” He angrily yelled at Derek. “I’m the harbinger, bringing your punishment!”

“Stiles,” Derek spoke his name in a gentle tone, a softness in his voice as he reached a hand up to finally touch Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles didn’t pull away this time. “Don’t you understand?” He pleadingly cried. “This is not _me_ , Derek.” Despite his former protests, he let Derek pull him in close with an arm wrapped around his waist. “Flesh that never ages,” he softly argued. “All nightmare and no dream,” a sob rushed his words. “You used to call me your dream—do you remember that?”

Derek’s thumb traced the curve of Stiles’ cheekbone, wiping the blood-filled tear away. “You still are,” he softly whispered.

Stiles started to cry, unable to stop the burning of his eyes as bloodied tears trailed down his cheeks. He allowed Derek to pull him into an embrace, unable to fight his own desire to be in Derek’s arms again.

“Come back with me,” Derek softly urged, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ temple. “I’ll take care of us—like I promised.”

Stiles sniffled out his agreement against Derek’s chest.

Derek used his strength to easily lift Stiles into his arms. He turned them back towards the hospital, uncaring of the vicar’s retreating form and the likely stories the man would tell of what transpired in the cemetery. He didn’t care—not with Stiles back in his arms.

~*~

Stiles turned in the bed, laying on his side as he observed the room around him. He curled against the pillow beneath his head, his legs curling up as he closed his eyes to inhale the scent encasing him. He was in different clothes, an oversized shirt that he hadn’t seen before but assumed was Derek’s own. He pressed his nose into the pillow, breathing in the overpowering smell of _Derek_.

When Stiles opened his eyes again, he saw Derek hunched over his desk writing. He watched Derek jot down his findings in his notebook. He released a soft sigh as he partially stretched under the warm blankets.

Derek turned in his stool, moving his attention towards Stiles’ as a soft smile pulled at his lips. “Good evening, sleepy head,” he fondly greeted Stiles.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile at that. “Good evening, doctor,” he answered. “I feel much better,” he confessed as he snuggled the blankets wrapped around him.

“That’s good,” Derek answered, abandoning his notebook completely as he stood up. He seamlessly moved across the room as easy as billowing smoke. He sat on the edge of the bed, taking Stiles’ hand in his own. He trailed his fingertips along Stiles’ pulse points.

“I’m still exhausted, but my mind is … clearer,” Stiles confessed.

Derek pressed a kiss to Stiles’ wrist, placing Stiles’ palm against his cheek.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Stiles suddenly uttered.

“Don’t say that,” Derek began. “It means everything that you’re here with me now.”

Stiles turned onto his back, his hand still lingering in touching Derek. “I could hurt people around us,” he explained. “I don’t want that—not anymore.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Derek stated in encouragement. He placed another kiss to Stiles’ skin in what he hoped was a welcomed comfort.

Stiles sat up, leaning in to embrace Derek. “I don’t know how you do it—how you can stop yourself from hurting these people.”

“I’m restrained, but not a saint,” Derek honestly confessed. “I’ve drank the blood from more than one of those hunters coming after me.”

“But you don’t do so senselessly,” Stiles replied. “I would turn rabid at the first sound of a rapid heartbeat,” he weakly admitted as he leaned against Derek’s shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of Derek’s neck.

“You’ll feed off me, then,” Derek finally stated.

Stiles stiffly pulled back from Derek, far enough to look at him.

“I promised you I’d find a cure,” Derek answered Stiles’ silence. “And until then, I’ll keep you safe.”

Stiles kissed Derek in loving acceptance.

~*~

Stiles trailed his fingers over the bend of Derek’s neck, gently caressing the soft skin as his own hunger beat through his body like a drum. “Derek,” he almost whispered through his newly grown fangs. He was uncertain, terrified of hurting Derek.

Derek tightened his hold on Stiles, his arms wrapped around Stiles’ torso as they sat together on the bed. “It’s okay,” he stated. “Whatever you need.”

Stiles sunk his fangs down into Derek’s neck, being careful in his actions as he drank Derek’s blood. His hunger vanished, the pounding in his head disappearing with every mouthful he took.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I'll continue this. Not sure. Hope you liked this!
> 
> Feel free to join me on [tumblr](http://dexterous-sinistrous.tumblr.com)


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